“One day I'll be wondering how
I got so old just wondering how
I never got cold wearing nothing in the snow.”
It seemed like the longest day ever, and typing without a D key is not helping this cause either. Virused and Spywared Sanchez is not the most pleasant force to reckon with, but I shall find myself a techie soon and all will be fine. For the present, lets just hope this miracle called the internet at 8 in the morning, in bed, stays just a little bit longer.
My Anthropology of Rights professor looks like Clark Kent. And not only in the partially geeky, spectacled, middle-parted-hair way, but even the look in his eye; you’ll believe me if you see him, as Taka said. My second class of the week is in 2 hours, but I feel like revisiting - my inspiration to write catches me at the wrong times. Like when I was on my way to Bahrain airport at 7am, with 4 smelly men who kept burping incessantly throughout the flight (in retaliation, I hogged the armrest!), and was itching to write, much to the shock of everyone sitting around me (yes you, iPhone boy), I ended up scribbling furiously on the (empty, unused) barf bag with my faithful Picasso.
Maybe I have gone into anthropologist mode, or so I’d like to think, but I notice people much more than I used to. For instance, the Ms. Farzana easy-Urdu teacher’s reincarnated version, with a camel back and spotted skin, who kept calling up her family at 7am to make sure the driver got home safely. Or the slightly dotty, doctor turned medical marketing manager, who left her 7 month old son behind to work in London. Or the uncle who kept complaining about how corrupt Pakistan is and married Birmingham Diaspora, to live his whole life in Marylebone, with a son who has 4 electric guitars, and a piano playing daughter. Or the Lebanese looking Desi whose mother kept insisting he take my phone number, in response to which he kept repeating ‘mai maafi chahta hoon’ within earshot. Lol.
I watched the nanny diaries on the plane, and prefer PIA’s entertainment interface to Gulf Air’s any day. Also, another few kgs doesn’t do anyone any harm, except the knees. Especially when you have a crushed cartilage. Nevertheless, the nanny goes on to study anthropology, and I think it’s the first time we have gotten publicity in mainstream films, in a really long time, especially in the form of Scarlet Johansson. Cool.
If lugging a 21 kilo suitcase-on-wheels down the tubes isn’t enough, you have to be me. After skipping the overcrowded jubilee line for an emptier carriage, I met an equally disgruntled passenger with two suitcases. We collectively decided to take the strategic spot before the double doors and squeezed into the closing doors upon second chance. Or so I thought. He got in and then helped me with my suitcase, but by the time I stepped onto the one-fifth of an inch of standing space, I got stuck. Stuck between the closing doors - backpack and all. It probably sounded really funny, in retrospect, when I repeated ‘Im stuck!’ about 5 times, slightly panicked by the thought of flying through the underground tunnels half in, half out. But after some major door-jamming and pulling, I was inside, partly mortified, partly traumatized, but angry at the apathy of the fucking goras who just stood there and stared, waiting for me to get crushed. Remind me to thank the Jordanian guy.
As I stepped out on platform 2, New Cross Gate, the fresh air burst into my lungs, and surprisingly, I felt great. The wind had the perfect crispness and chill to it, the sky was bright and the construction barriers had been removed. It felt comforting to be back, to the alien neighborhood where I spent the last few (n-1) months of my time. It gave me a good start, for my new year’s resolution, to live life more, stay in less, read more, eat less, listen more, learn even more and find happiness in the smallest of things.
These are the days.